


First and Last of Your Kind

by verbaepulchellae



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), F/M, Life-Affirming Sex, Oral Sex, Season 2 canon compliant, Smut, post 2x05, these babes are so damaged I don't know how they get through the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need to you tell me,” Bellamy says very carefully, enunciating every word even though his voice is dark and rough. “What we’re doing here, Clarke.”</p>
<p>“I need to feel this,” Clarke whispers. “Please, Bellamy. Please. I need you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	First and Last of Your Kind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rashaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/gifts).



> Happiest (slightly belated) Birthday to the one and only, Rashaka. This lady is rad, you should all be friends with her. 
> 
> Written for her prompt: After Bellamy and Clarke bring Finn back to Camp Jaha, comfort smut ensues in the face of all the horror they've witnessed in the past two weeks.

There’s the taste of ash in her mouth and the sound of Grounders moaning as they shift in steel cages, the echoing sobs of Grounders as they mourn their dead in a small village ring in her ears. The sight of bodies - the elderly, the young, the crippled - lying at the feet of a boy who once professed peace is a seared afterimage, a retinal glare that’s too bright even as Clarke presses her aching eyes into the heels of her palms.

There is so much death on Earth. In the last two weeks alone she has seen more people die than she knew by name on the Ark. There’s a tremor to her hands, a sick, deadened feeling in her gut and Clarke itches for something. 

“Hey,” Bellamy rumbles next to her. They’ve paused for rest, only a few hours from Camp Jaha and Clarke looks up at him from where she’s slid down to lean against the trunk of a tree, as far from Finn and Murphy as she can get. Bellamy’s eyes are exhausted and a bit glassy and Clarke knows her eyes reflect his expression. “You okay?”

Clarke snorts humorlessly and Bellamy echoes the sound, a tight smile on his face. “Right, stupid question.” His grip on his gun leaves his hands bone white and Clarke impulsively reaches out to stroke her fingers over his, try to sooth that tight grip, try to comfort him although there’s not much that’s very comforting. 

It’s like she’s touched a live wire, the shock that radiates through her and Bellamy both is that strong. Both of their eyes drop to where she touches him and Clarke slowly withdraws her hand, fingers tingling.

Bellamy clears his throat and takes a step back from her, giving his head a little shake. “Right. We should keep moving.” He clears his throat again and raises his voice to call to Murphy and Finn across the little clearing. Octavia is already a dark, insistent presence drawing them forward.

The rest of their trek, Clarke thinks she must ignore Finn. She knows he hovers close to her, knows that he speaks to her, but everything feels dull and muted, she only hears his voice as if through water, only realizes he’s spoken when the only sound that remains is the crackling of their feet on dead leaves and broken branches. Her fingers keep tingling though, hot, like they’ve been singed. 

Abby is a grim mouth and cool anger and overwhelming relief when they get back. She yells at Clarke even as she draws her close and wraps her arms around her. Kane is silent behind her. There are implications made about rules being broken, disobedience, forgiveness. Clarke doesn’t process any of it. 

“Finn attacked a village,” she says and the hubub goes still around her. “There are dead Grounders.”

Behind her, she’s aware Bellamy shifts subtly.

“Ok,” Abby says after moment. “All of you to medical. Then we talk.”

Clarke is cleared shortly after Bellamy and Finn. Her mom is still working and then there’s talk of an inquisition. “Just a review,” Kane assures Clarke as he escorts her from Medbay. “We just need to know what happened.” Clarke nods, not really hearing him. 

She’s at a loss when Kane leaves her outside of the wreckage of the Ark, called to address security issues while Clarke stands alone and still in the middle of the bustle of the survivors of Camp Jaha. There is still ash in her mouth and screams in her ears and dead and charred bodies when she closes her eyes. Her fingers still tingle.

She looks down at her hand and scrubs at her fingers. There’s an itching sensation there, the only thing that feels real right now. She needs that. She needs to feel real and alive after all that death and for a moment she’s at a loss of how to get that, how to feel that when she can’t turn to Finn and Raven is buried in engineering and forty-seven of her friends could be dying in Mount Weather.

But then she thinks of Bellamy’s fingers under hers. She thinks of Bellamy’s solid, competent frame against her body after she flew across Camp to him, heart pounding against her ribcage, relief at the sight of him like a fire in her chest. The way his arms felt when they wrapped around her and he rocked her with the force of his hug. The way his skin was warm and just a bit damp with his sweat when she dropped her mouth into his shoulder. How she opened her eyes to his heavy gaze on her, lit by firelight. That was real. That was intensely, undeniably, truly real.

Before she’s even aware of deciding to, she’s searching for Bellamy. She finds him in one of the open living quarters of the Ark. She’s not sure how many doors she’s opened looking for him, but when she finally finds him, he’s sitting at the foot of the bed in a sparse room, knees braced on his legs, staring hard at the floor.

When he hears her come in, he starts, hand half going for a gun that isn’t at his side, eyes a little wild until he realizes it’s just her. “Sorry,” Clarke says, closing the door behind her. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Bellamy makes a sound like he’s trying to scoff at her, but it comes out a little wrong, strained rather than amused and dismissive. “You need me for something?” He asks after a moment of silence. 

Clarke sinks down on the bed next to him, unsure of what to say. She reaches out again, a little unsure, aware of Bellamy tracking her hand with his eyes, and lays her hand on his forearm. His skin is warm under hers and when she traces her fingers down the muscle and bone and slips under his wrist to find his pulsepoint with her thumb, Bellamy takes a shaky inhale. His pulse is strong under Clarke’s fingertips and soothing. Bellamy is here and alive and safe. Just that knowledge alone calms Clarke. She’s got Bellamy. 

She thinks about all the ways Bellamy makes her feel alive. It’s in the way they argued at the Drop ship, his investment in keeping all of them alive fueling and rekindling Clarke’s own when her exhaustion felt too great. It’s in the way he looked to her when there was a tough decision to be made and didn’t hesitate call her on her bullshit if she needed it. It’s in how she could feel him on the periphery of her senses even when she couldn’t have known him to be alive after she closed the drop ship door. Bellamy is life affirming for all that he is gunpowder and muscle and rough low voice that speaks more to blood and violence than it does to peace and hope. 

Bellamy turns his hand over under her fingers and clasps her wrist in his hand, fingers finding her pulsepoint in return and pressing into it. It’s like he completes an electrical circuit: Clarke suddenly can’t stand not being closer to him. She needs him, desperate to have more contact, desperate to feel the way Bellamy’s vitality triggers her own. Before she can stop herself, she leans in and kisses the angle of his jaw, lips lingering, tongue teasing against his rough, barely there stubble, a hot promise she intends to make good on.

“Clarke,” Bellamy breaths, strangled, his hand closing tight on her wrist. “What are we doing?”

“I just…” Clarke can’t find the words for it. She draws back enough to look at Bellamy, her other hand coming up to grip his shoulder, and she shudders at the strong muscle, the warmth of his skin. Oh, but she _needs_ him. “Please?” She whispers.

Bellamy barely hesitates before he’s turning and crowding her back, down against the bed, breath gone ragged. He catches both of her hands and pushes them into the mattress by her shoulders, straddles her hips and looms over her. Their only point of contact is where his fingers grip her wrists, strong and sure, and the soft puff of his breath against her lips, just inches between their mouths. She arches up under him, trying to feel him, but he shifts away.

“I need to you tell me,” Bellamy says very carefully, enunciating every word even though his voice is dark and rough. “What we’re doing here, Clarke.”

“I need to feel this,” Clarke whispers. “Please, Bellamy. Please. I need you.”

Bellamy’s eyes darken even as he closes them quickly and his fingers tighten marginally on her wrists. “We can’t take this back,” Bellamy warns, even as he drops his head and his lips graze the corner of her mouth. 

“I won’t want to,” Clarke promises and turns her head to kiss him. 

Bellamy’s lips are chapped and split from exposure, and it must hurt but he makes a soft sound low in his throat, so at odds with the rough way he holds her and kisses her back. Clarke pushes against his hands and he instantly lets her go, bracing himself with one hand on the mattress by her head. With the other he cups her jaw and angles her to deepen the kiss. Bellamy’s mouth feels so good against her own and Clarke moans, tugs at his shoulders because she needs to _feel_ him, and he drops instantly so that he blankets her with his weight, hot and hard all along her body. 

Bellamy traces his tongue along the seam of Clarke’s mouth and she opens for him, almost shocked by how good it feels to touch the tip of her tongue to his, how it makes her stomach flip pleasantly in a way she can’t remember ever feeling before. He hums against her and licks deeper into her mouth, teasing her when she tries to tangle her tongue with his again, coaxing it out of her mouth and into his own and then sucking hard and dirty on it, bringing a shocked gasp to Clarke’s lips. He takes his time with her even as she tries to bite at his lips for more, rocks up her hips into him. She drags her hands down his back and pulls the hem of his blue shirt up roughly so that it catches around Bellamy’s head and he groans in frustration.

“Sorry, sorry,” Clarke mumbles as he breaks away from her to strip it off and throw it from him. Clarke looks up the long line of his body, takes in the way his golden skin is flushed, the way his muscles are right there and she reaches up to touch him, gliding her hands up his stomach and chest, curious in spite of her need at the way he twitches under her fingers. Bellamy watches her through slitted eyes, and his chin falls forward on his chest when she ghosts her fingertips lightly over his nipples.

“Clarke,” he says, half pleading, half demanding and Clarke drags her hands back down, giving him her nails and watching his skin turn red in their wake, blood rushing to the abraded skin. Clarke pushes herself up and fits her mouth over the trail of one, Bellamy’s hand automatically coming to the back of her head, holding her close to him as her tongue follows the scratch mark back up to his chest, as far as she can reach. She sucks a dark mark when she can’t get any higher without dislodging Bellamy from his precarious balance on his knees. His fingers twist into her hair, gentle but stinging just slightly as he pulls her hair tight and Clarke fits her teeth into his muscle. “Yeah,” he whines in a breathy gust. “Clarke.”

She looks up at him, teeth still set into his skin and he’s just a few inches above her. His hands gentle her hair and he drops down so that his weight is resting on her legs, so his mouth is close enough that he can kiss her as he tugs her off his skin. He’s greedy as he pulls her shirt up and over her head, barely hesitating before he tugs her bra off as well. 

He shoves at her, follows her back down to bite down her neck, soothing as he goes with his tongue. His hands drop to her breasts and he pushes them together, fingers kneading gently, finding her nipples and rolling them lightly between thumbs and fingers, getting meaner, rougher as she gasps above him and she grabs at his head, getting her fingers in his hair.

“More, please,” Clarke begs and Bellamy closes his mouth over one of her nipples and sucks hard, fits his teeth into her and pulls until Clarke cries out and arches under him, the painful pleasure of it singing along her nerves and gathering, pulsing and insistent in her clit. Bellamy gives her other nipple the same treatment, rough with her in a way that Clarke needs. She’s done being gentled, being tamed.

Clarke tugs on Bellamy’s hair and he cocks his head to look up her body even as he continues to mouth hotly at her tits, teeth sharp and tongue a hard, flickering point that lashes across her nipples between pulls of his mouth. “Mm, Bellamy,” Clarke moans at a particularly hard draw of Bellamy’s mouth.

“This what you need, Clarke?” He asks her, lifting his head. When Clarke looks down, her breasts are flushed red and nipples peaked from his attention. His fingers brush lightly across her nipples still, sensitive from his mouth, keeping her gasping as she nods.

“Yeah,,” Clarke moans and Bellamy bites the curve of her breast. Bellamy rolls his hips into her thigh and she feels how hard his cock is where it’s still trapped in his pants. God, but that’s what she needs, right there. The proof of Bellamy caught up in this with her, taking pleasure from her, proving there’s something beyond guns and needles and fire on this planet. 

Bellamy nuzzles his face into the soft flesh of her breasts where he keeps them pressed together between his hands. Clarke rakes her fingers over his scalp and down the nape of his neck and Bellamy growls into her. 

“Like that?” Clarke murmurs even as she grips him harder. Bellamy hums against her and bites her again. She’s going to be covered in bruises. She’s going to be able to press her fingers into those bruises and remember his mouth on her. 

Bellamy lets go of her tits and rakes his nails down her sides, ghosts them along her belly, making her twitch at the contrasting sensation even as he follows his hands with his lips, sucking kisses into her ribcage, eyes dark and intent on her face.

Clarke aches between her legs, and as Bellamy’s hands linger at the waistband of her pants, slipping just underneath to tease at the soft skin there, Clarke is torn between letting him continue, letting him fuck into her with his fingers and his tongue, and between needing to make him feel good in return. It’s the thought of his dick in her mouth, of it heavy and hard and hot on her tongue that makes Clarke moan and she thrashes under him, pulling at his hair again and dragging him up.

Bellamy winces at the sting but he lets her manhandle him so that she’s flipping them over, wiggling down the bed so she can properly get between his legs. As her fingers start at the button of his pants, mouth hot on the definition of his hips, Bellamy groans and flops back on the bed. “Yeah, go on,” he urges her, “take what you need.”

Clarke cuts her eyes up at him and then pulls roughly on his pants so that she can get the fabric over his hips and down his legs in one go. Bellamy’s hard cock springs free, slaps at his stomach and Bellamy sounds like he’s had the air punched out of him as Clarke fists him and angles him up so she can lick broadly over the flushed red head.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Clarke,” Bellamy groans, hands tangling in her head again. “Shit, shit,” he pants as she sucks him into her mouth and works him hard and fast, sucking hungrily at the head, pulling the little blurts of precum from tip that taste like the good things on earth: like soil and spruce and hard-earned sweat.

Bellamy twitches under her, legs tense, abs clenching and face screwed up at the hard, insistent suction of her mouth. “Easy, _easy,_ ” he groans after a particularly brutal tug of Clarke’s lips and Clarke softens on him apologetically, sucking lightly instead and flickering her tongue on the underside of his cock, right below the head and Bellamy makes an entirely different noise, hot and helpless. She watches his face, the way his brows crease in pleasure and yeah, that’s what she wants right there. Wants to give Bellamy relief, wants to prove that her existence can cause more than pain and needless killing.

She takes him deeper, mindful of her hunger, trying to temper it as she bobs her head up and down, enjoys the way that his cock hits the back of her throat and makes her choke a bit, the way the spit gathers at the base of his dick. He’s a sight, spread out in front of her, one hand knuckled white in the bedspread and stomach quivering. She can feel how hard he’s working to keep from thrusting into her mouth.

“I wanna,” Bellamy starts, and then tugs at her hair to get her attention when Clarke ignores him. “Hey, turn around,” he urges, hands gentling to comb through her hair. “Please, Clarke, I want to touch you as well.” Clarke pulls off his cock with a wet pop and a gasp to rearrange herself, swinging her legs over his chest shuffling so she’s braced above his body. Bellamy makes quick work of getting her pants off and tugging her hips back so that she’s right over his face. Clarke flushes in spite of herself, shy, and tucks her face into his hip.

“It’s ok,” Bellamy soothes her, his thumb gently stroking at her hip. “It’s ok, huh?” He trails in his fingers down her sides lightly, so gentle compared to his rough handling before and it brings unwanted tears to Clarke’s eyes. 

“Just- just,” Clarke urges and Bellamy understands, settles his hands and thumbs her open and then licks from her clit up her slit. Clarke gasps and squeezes his dick in her fist, shuddering at the hot flash of pleasure. Bellamy growls and licks her again, harder, his tongue flicking and lashing at her clit, lips closing over it and sucking as she whines, desperate.

“Bellamy, shit. Yeah, like that,” Clarke gasps high and breathless, shoving her hips back at his face. She tries to fit her mouth back around him, take him deep in her throat, but when he pushes a finger into her and flutters it, Clarke chokes on him and coughs, pulling off, breath ragged and pressing her face into his thigh, shuddering.

“Sorry,” Bellamy murmurs, “you can just suck on it a bit, huh? Just the head,” and Clarke shivers and does as he asks, sucking on him shallowing and working the shaft of his cock with her fist, moaning around him as he returns his mouth to her hot and a little mean.

God, it’s so good, it’s so good. The room is filled with the slick sounds of mouths on flesh and Bellamy’s grunts, her own whines and the quick, snatched gasps of air they manage between driving each other towards a moment where they can forget everything they’ve seen. Forget everything but each other.

Clarke’s orgasm surprises her, hits her when Bellamy slides another finger into her and pinches her clit between his lips. Her arm, braced against his thigh, squeezing the muscle, gives out and she presses her forehead into his hip again, bites into the fragile skin there as her body convulsives. Bellamy groans and thrusts his fingers harder, grinding into her and lapping at her to keep her coming until Clarke thrashes, whimpering at how intense it is. 

As soon as Bellamy lets up on her and she starts to come down, Clarke needs more. She squirms on top of Bellamy, dislodging the arm he’s thrown over her hips to keep her close to him. His hands fall away and she scrambles to turn around, catching sight of his mouth, red and wet, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and God, she wants to be good to him. Prove to herself and to him that there’s goodness in this world, gentleness even amidst pain and death.

When she sinks down onto him, they both swear, Bellamy gripping her hips tightly, eyes clenched close. Clarke tosses her head back when he bottoms out inside her. God, he’s so big, so much more than his fingers and the stretch of him tingles up her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms. It feels good, the slight sting of him inside her just enhancing how full and right it feels to have Bellamy so deep. 

He blinks his eyes open and looks up at her, gaze full of trust and something else Clarke can’t think too hard about because it does something funny to her chest. She gazes back down at him, and knows from the way his eyes go soft that something shifts between them. Suddenly, it’s not just about chasing their pleasure, trying to get each other off. This is something more.

She braces her hands on his chest and leans forward to give him a quick, light kiss, a little unsure, her lips coming away slick with her own arousal. He catches her and pulls her back in, kissing her deeply, licking into her mouth and then tilting his head up so their foreheads touch.

“Clarke,” he whispers. 

“I know,” she murmurs back. He smooths his hands from her hips around to her back and strokes up her back gently. She rocks down onto him experimentally, and Bellamy’s eyes fall closed again. “Bellamy,” she says and he opens his eyes to look at her, pupils blown, eyes dark with something different than lust. She sets up a rolling rhythm, braced forward on her forearms, fingers curling into the hair at Bellamy’s nape and keeps her forehead against his. They pant into each other’s mouths, Bellamy’s fingers stroking lightly up and down her back, slipping between their chests so he can graze her nipples with his thumbs. She shivers at the soft touch, so at odds with how deep his cock is inside her. Fuck, fuck it’s so good and Clarke can’t keep the eye contact after a while, buries her head into Bellamy’s neck instead and mouths at his shoulder.

Clarke rocks down on him as Bellamy shifts his hips up and it does something for both of them. Clarke bites down hard into the meat of his shoulder, suddenly close and aching again. Bellamy whispers her name, breathy and desperate and his fingers falter on her, gripping her shoulder blades as he fucks up into her, thrusts suddenly rough and desperate in a way that sends shocks of pleasure tingling through Clarke, lingering in her nipples and the tips of her ears. 

It’s when Bellamy’s hands slide down to her hips and holds her still so he can grind into her and her clit rubs against his pubic bone that Clarke trips over into her orgasm, whimpering into Bellamy’s neck, eyes squeezed close against the rush of it that leaves her gasping and breathless. Bellamy is silent when he comes but he holds her tight, arms snaking around her back to crush her to his chest, breath stuttering.

Everything is hot and sticky with sweat and Clarke scritches her fingers into Bellamy’s hair, soothing after the tight grip. Bellamy shifts a bit, hands sweet again, his palm running up and down her spine, gentling when Clarke starts to sit up.

“Hey, hey,” Bellamy says. “Stay with me for a moment?”

Clarke hesitates and then leans back down and presses a kiss to his mouth. He kisses her back, hungry and wanting but slow with it. One of his hands finds her face and his thumb is so sweet against her cheek, a gentle touch against the cuts that still sting. 

“You ok?” Bellamy asks her when he releases her lips. He’s starting to go soft and it’s easy to slip to the side and fit herself into the crook of his arm. 

“Yeah,” Clarke says, though tears are threatening again. “I… thank you.”

“Of course,” Bellamy whispers and presses a kiss to her forehead. Bellamy wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair and Clarke places her hand above his heart, feels it beating fast but strong under her palm.

“There’s… there’s a lot we have to do,” Clarke starts and knows it sounds like an excuse, an apology. She’s not sure if she means it that way or not.

“Yeah,” Bellamy husks and then clears his throat. “We’re going to be ok, Clarke.” His voice is soft but it has the conviction Clarke has come to rely on him to give her. “We’re going to get through this.”

Clarke looks up at him, propping her chin on her shoulder. “If we do,” she starts and Bellamy silences her with another kiss.

“When we do,” he says, “we’ll come back to this, okay?”

“Ok,” Clarke agrees. “Once it’s all over.”

Bellamy hums and drops his head back against the bed. “We’ll… we’ll get a drink,” he says and there’s a note of laughter in his voice at the absurdity of such a mundane activity amidst the death and chaos they’ve become accustomed to. But it’s a nice thought, Clarke thinks vaguely. It’s something beyond impossible decisions and bullets and faces of friends that have become strangers. 

It’s hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Every Other Freckle" by Alt-J, cause how can you not? Thank you to notmylady for her spectacular beta'ing.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated. I always love knowing what you guys think and if anything in particular stuck out to ya.
> 
> I hang out on tumblr doing stuff and things about the 100. [Join Me!](http://verbam.tumblr.com/)


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